


Future Imperfect

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Challenge Response, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-30
Updated: 2000-07-30
Packaged: 2018-11-10 06:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11121573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Then it came full circle.This story is a sequel toBest Served Cold.





	Future Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Future Imperfect

## Future Imperfect

by Alison

Author's notes: Not quite so dark and nasty for the last one. But still very definitely AU.

* * *

**FUTURE IMPERFECT**

Another night, another Consulate reception, and once again I'm on door duty. It's a task I've become used to over the years; there was time when I could delegate this kind of job to Turnbull, but since he was promoted to Deputy Liaison Officer it is my duty, as the lowest ranked officer here, to do the most menial tasks. 

I put the red serge on reluctantly; it's a barrier against the world, it always has been, but just recently I have come to loathe the restriction of it; the tightness of the collar around my neck. 

One mistake. That was all. Just one mistake almost five years ago and I have been paying for it ever since. Ray Kowalski. That was the name of the mistake. I tried to hard to find him, make him pay for the humiliation he caused me, but it was as if he had never existed. He told me he was good at disappearing; he was right because to escape from me he had to be the best. 

"Constable?" Turnbull appears in the doorway of my office. "It's time you were on duty." 

"Yes Sergeant," I say, shaking myself mentally, trying to put out of my mind a face that has haunted me for five long years. Blond hair, eyes of all shades from blue to hazel, and a smile that could light a room. 

Inspector Thatcher stops me in the hallway and commences her usual thorough inspection of my appearance. She has not touched me in any way other than when it has been unavoidable since the occurrence she refers to as 'the incident'. Sometimes I almost miss our previous fumbled attempts at intimacy. Almost. 

"You'll do, Constable," she says, glancing at her watch. "Get to work." 

"Yes sir," I say, walking around her and opening the Consulate door. 

It's a cold evening with the wind starting to come from the north. Smells of home. A home I can only dream of now; the border closed to me, probably for good, my existence carefully swept under the carpet. 

I close my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment, but the first car arriving jolts me from any memories, and my mundane evening begins. 

* 

An hour later I open yet another car door, not bothering to look. I stare straight ahead, wishing the occupant a stilted "Good evening." 

"Thanks, Constable," says a voice which jolts me into the past before dragging me back to the here and now. 

I look at him and he hasn't changed. Oh the hair is a little less wild but otherwise he's the same. My nerves feel exposed and almost painful. As he always did he has stripped me down to the most basic needs. 

"Ray..." I say, sounding strange even to my own ears. 

"Oh, I think you mean Mr Kowalski," he says, brushing past me. As he gets to the door of the Consulate he looks back over his shoulder. "You gonna open the door, Constable?" 

"Yes Mr Kowalski," I say, swallowing against my reaction to him. I open the door and he walks into the Consulate without giving me a second glance. 

* 

By the time I am relieved an hour later, I have almost persuaded myself that I have damped down anything he made me feel. It's over; it was over a long time ago. But I was wrong. 

As I enter the Consulate, my eyes are drawn to him immediately, helplessly. He's got his back to me and is apparently deep in conversation with another guest, but I see his shoulders straighten and his head tilt to one side in that way it always did when he was aware of something without actually acknowledging it. 

Still helpless, I watch him finish his drink and gracefully finish his conversation. He has learned social skills in the time he's been away from me. He turns and walks across the room to me, and even wearing a suit and hemmed in on all sides by people, he's a wild animal, wary and graceful. I watch him, unable to move. 

He approaches me and holds out his glass. 

"Get me another drink Constable," he says. "Club soda, okay?" 

I take the glass and nod, doing as he asks. When I turn from the bar he's watching me, his eyes cautious and careful. 

"Thanks," he says as I hand the glass back to him. His fingers brush mine, and I feel that touch all over my body. Damnit, why does he still have this hold over me? 

"Want some food as well," he says. "Go get me some." 

Again I do as he bids, unable to do anything else, partly from a sense of duty, but also because I want to... I need to. I need to speak to him, do his bidding, anything. 

I bring a plate of food back to him but he puts it on a side table, not even looking at it. 

"So did you try and find me?" he asks suddenly, his hand brushing through his hair in that familiar restless gesture. 

"Yes I did," I say. "But you were too good at your job. And anyway I had a lot of explaining to do here." 

"I'll just bet you did," he says. 

I want to continue our conversation, but with a vague smile at me, he suddenly walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway like some kind of idiot. I look to see where he has gone, but he's vanished into the mass of people, all moving in some kind of ritualised dance. He could always disappear if he wanted to. I always used to think that I would be able to see him, sense him somehow, no matter where he was, but I know now that it was wrong of me to think that. He's a chameleon, blending in with whatever background he has to. 

I go upstairs to the Queen's Bedroom and close the door quietly behind me. I look at the bed and try to summon up the hatred and anger I felt when he climbed out of the window leaving me trussed to the bed. But I can't. There's no hatred there anymore; there's nothing anymore, just emptiness. I've been empty since he left without trace. 

I can never forget the shame when the door to this room opened and Inspector Thatcher appeared. Her face was a perfect blank as she went to find Turnbull so that he could wield the hacksaw to get me out of the cuffs. Neither of them said a word to me, but from that day to this I feel their contempt and disgust. 

Sighing, I drag myself back to the present. I have to back on duty in a little over 15 minutes. Time for a cup of tea and a brief rest. 

I stop myself scanning the hallway for him as I make my way downstairs and into my office, gratefully closing the door on the hubbub outside. It's then that I realise I'm not alone in my office, and I turn slowly. 

He's perched on the edge of the desk, jacket open and tie undone. Christ, how can he have such an effect on me? 

"Mr Kowalski," I say, leaning against the door and folding my arms. "Can I help you?" 

He slides off the desk and goes to the window. 

"Thought I'd say hello," he says. "It's been a long time." 

"That it has," I answer. "You've become successful I see." 

He nods, his head outlined against the light coming through the window. 

"Left the force," he says. "Went to Los Angeles. I was always good with cars, and that's how I make my living now. There are a lot of rich people out there who don't know one end of a car from the other. Got outlets all over California." 

"So why are you here tonight?" I push myself away from the door and go to my desk, keeping my eyes on him all the time. 

"I'm always being invited to this sorta thing now," he says. "I'm successful, I have money. Don't matter where you started or what happened along the way, money talks." He turns so that he's looking at me, but his face is in deep shadow. "Canada's just as greedy for my money as America," he says. "People always want to fuck you over, Fraser, no matter what." 

"I thought that if I saw you again," I say, pushing away from the desk and walking slowly towards him. "That I would want to hurt you, punish you, maybe even kill you." I see him tense as I approach him, but I can't see his expression. 

"I was wrong though," I say. "You and me Ray, we have a connection that can't be broken, not by time or by distance. I've thought about you for five years. Did you think about me?" 

"I told you that I would miss you every day, and I wasn't lying," he answers. "I've kept track of you, what's happened to you." 

"Thanks to you, nothing," I say. "I'm still a Constable, as you see. At the bottom of the ladder now. Inspector Thatcher found me in the bedroom you know? She called Turnbull who let me go and then she ordered me to get cleaned up and never referred to it directly. But there was a new tone to our conversations; I disgust her. The only time she ever refers to it is as 'an unfortunate incident'. But I have never been trusted with a case again. The Chicago Police Department has never called on my services again. Thanks to you." 

"No Fraser," he says, moving away from the window and back towards the door. "It was never me who caused this. You should have listened to what I said to you all those years ago. I miss you more than I thought was possible. I miss my friend." He shrugs, almost at the door. "I wanted to see you again, but I don't think you've changed, have you?" 

"I have changed, Ray," I say quickly, not wanting him to leave. "If you'll give me a chance I'll let you see how I've changed. " 

"You still blame me for what happened," says Ray, but he stops as he reaches the door, turns and leans on it, mirroring my own stance of a few moments before. "I told you that I wasn't wired like that." He shrugs. "I'm not wired for pain Fraser. Doesn't mean I'm not wired for you." He pauses, his hand running slowly down his chest and coming to rest on the waistband of his black pants. "You should have asked, not taken." 

My brain is slow tonight; for a moment I can't comprehend what he's saying to me. I stare at him leaning against the door and I want to fall on him, ravish him, and use him. But he won't let me do that. But if I ask...? 

I slowly walk towards him, watching him for any sign of a trick or an attempt to escape. 

"Okay," he says softly, almost to himself, "Okay." 

I reach him, but before I can make a move he tangles those beautiful hands of his in my hair and pulls my face towards his own. 

The kiss is almost brutal; harsh and demanding, and I find myself pressing him against the door, whimpering in my throat. Christ I want this! I want this for the rest of my life. It's all I've ever wanted. 

I lose myself in his scent, his taste, so when he pushes me away, I'm briefly confused. I step back but he tangles his fingers in my lanyard, holding me close. 

"This door lock?" he asks huskily. I nod and reach round him, turning the key. 

He takes my head between his hands and kisses me again, hard and deep, walking me backward at the same time until the backs of my legs hit my desk. He reaches round and sweeps everything papers, telephone, everything off the surface, then grins wildly up at me. 

"Always wanted to do that." 

I grin back at him, just as wild, and reach for him, trying to turn him so that he is across the desk, but he wriggles away from me and pushes me, face down, across the cold, slick wood. 

"No," he says in my ear. "Not this time. This time you're mine." 

He keeps one hand on the nape of my neck and with the other he reaches around me, unfastening my pants with ease, pushing them down until they're tangled around my thighs. I hear the rustling of cloth and the sound of a zipper as he opens his own pants, and then I feel the weight of him across my back, his dick, hard and weeping, pressed against my ass. 

"Oh Jesus, Ray," I'm whimpering, almost sobbing. "Oh please, please..." I don't even know what I'm begging for. I just want him inside me. With me. Being me. Part of me. 

"You're mine, Fraser," he says against my neck, his breath hot and damp. "You always were. You just took before it was offered." 

"Ray, anything.." I say again. "I'm yours, just please..." 

His weight lifts off me and I feel a searing pain as he thrusts himself inside me. I cry out, I don't know what, and grip the edge of the desk as hard as I can. 

He's merciless with me; hard and brutal. It's what I want, maybe even what I deserve. 

"See Frase?" he gasps, his hand still pressing my head against the wood, his other hand in the small of my back. "I win now. I win. My choice." 

I can hardly hear him for the roaring in my ears as my blood pounds through my veins. I can't last; I can't, and as I come over the pristine wood I'm struck with the mad vision of Inspector Thatcher clutching a can of furniture polish. I laugh and I gasp, crying out as I feel him coming as well, inside me, claiming me. 

He collapses against me briefly and I feel the lightest of kisses against my neck, before he pulls himself up and out of me. I hear myself whimper at the loss. 

I stand up, trying to make myself look respectable again. He's doing the same, head down, but then he looks up at me and half smiles. 

"What now Ray?" I ask. "Will you stay?" 

"Hell no," he says, laughing. "I've got a life on the other side of the country. You were a nice fuck, Fraser, but don't flatter yourself." 

"No!" I say. "No, you can't just leave like that, not now. We're connected you and I, I told you that. You can't just leave and go back to Los Angeles." 

"I can Fraser," he says, running his hands through his hair. "I win, like I said." He takes a step, covering the ground between us, and reaches up as though he was going to kiss me. Instead he licks very softly along my bottom lip. Almost unbearably erotic. 

"See ya," he says softly. And he turns his back on me and leaves the office. 

And if I let him, he will leave my life. Again. 

No, I can't let that happen. And anyway, what life do I have here? Forgotten about, discarded and dismissed by everyone. The one thing I had was the thing I thought lost to me forever, but perhaps I was wrong. 

Without thinking about it further, I strip out of my uniform and leave it lying on the floor. I pull on my jeans and shirt and leave my office. Naturally I walk straight into my superior officer. 

"Just where do you think you're going Constable?" asks Sergeant Turnbull, eyeing my casual attire. 

"After him," I say, pointing towards the door where Ray is taking his leave of Inspector Thatcher. 

"Constable, you leave this Consulate, don't even think about coming back," says Turnbull, and I look at him, letting my contempt show. 

"Why would I want to come back?" I ask. "He's my future. He's my past. Without him there's nothing." 

"You disgust me," he says. "And you'll disgust him as well." 

I don't care. I don't care if he treats me as the dirt underneath his boots. When he got out of the car tonight I felt the blood begin to pound in my veins, and I haven't felt so alive in five years. If he goes now then I will go back to nothing. Anything he wants, I'll give him. 

As I push past Turnbull, ignoring his call of "Constable!" Ray looks up. He looks at me for a long moment and many things are said between us at that point. Then he turns his back on me and walks out of the door. 

Like a willing dog, or an obedient slave, I follow him. I will always follow him. 

The End 


End file.
